The Rhode Island Republican

Poetry.

FOR THE REPUBLICAN.

Circular Letter from that renowned and distinguished personage, the Right Honorable the "Lord of Isla." Governor and Commander in Chief of his Majesty's forces in the colony of Williamsania, Knight of the noble order of the Goose-Quill, &c. &c. addressed to his confidential friends now in office throughout the colony.

Translated into English from the language of that celebrated and inimitable epistolary writer, by Peter Tinderhorn, Esq.

FROM where, upon Weybosset saddle,
Sits Providence the waves astraddle,
And, in monarchic pride, elate,
Essays to rule Rhode-Island State,
The "Lord of Isla" greeting sends
To all his confidential friends,
And wishes them, with great sincerity,
To all their tory schemes prosperity.

But much he fears that cursed clan,
Of old, yclept republican,
By whom fell freedom is prefer'd,
—Protectors of the "swinish herd,"
Who constantly our schemes oppose,
—Of slavery the deadly foes,
And who, alert, are always viewing
Whatever mischiefs we are brewing
And tho' we act so very wisely,
They take our measures so precisely,
I fear they will our plans frustrate,
And plunge us in a dismal state.

Altho' the author of all treason,
Gave us a friendly lift last season,
And hoisted us a mile, or more,
Higher than what we were before,
And fix'd us in conspicuous station,
Rather beyond our expectation,
We need place on him no dependence,
Unless we dance up close attendance
And if he chance to disappear,
And leave us to ourselves this year,
We soon shall on our backs be sprawling
Or in the mud like sow-bugs crawling.

But to avoid such sad disaster
And prosecute our schemes the faster
Truth must be shunn'd, a deadly evil,
As children shun a scare-crow devil:
For should its envious light prevail.
Our deepest stratagems must fail,
And we sink under execration,
The objects of just indignation.

And while we toil with seeming zeal,
We must our true designs conceal:
Talk much of genuine patriotism,
Vociferate against state schism;
Call often on the hero's name,
Who could the British war-hawk tame,
Although we're under strong conviction,
Our tenets are flat contradiction.

To this sage father of the nation,
Disgrac'd by our dissimulation,
We sacriligiously must dare
The garb of honesty to wear,
However galling to the natures,
Of future pandemonium waiters,
May be the very appellation
Of all that's goodly, in creation.

But to more certainly secure
Proxies sufficient to insure
Our triumph at the next election,
And keep the demos in subjection,
The gold by crazy George contributed,
Must be assiduously distributed
This a sovereign power possesses,
Beyond our crocodile caresses,
And strangely will control the hand,
As Britain's agents shall command,
Moving it for the royal weal,
As mystic magnets govern steel.

Another talismanic potency,
To aid our cause with mighty cogency.
And keep us, brainless monkies, in,
Exists in federal rum and gin.
These wondrously invert the sight,
Make geese seem men, and black seem white,
Numskulls resemble men of learning,
Endow'd with infinite discerning :
The acts of vice appear devotion,
Hypocrisy a guiltless notion,
And arrant knaves, however noted,
Seem subjects fit to be promoted.

When these the luckless brain usurp,
And all the senses sadly warp,
Virtue and truth may plead in vain,
Their cause no more they can maintain
Reason and judgment quit their throne
And fell confusion reigns alone.

Our task will then be easy made,
A little artifice display'd,
And staggering converts us obey,
While we, victorious, win the day.

How lucky was it for the tories,
The "Suffrage Bill" to fall before us!
Had that d—d thing become a law.§
We all should now have stood in awe,
Nor dar'd to bribe by gold and liquor,
But, sunk in filth, could only bricker.

Thank God, we yet can freely wield
Our engines till the witless yield;
Profusely scatter round our cash,
Like those who try "to cut a dash ;"
Kiss wives with guineas in the muzzle,
Make husbands madd'ning spirits guzzle,
Till rationality be flown,
And they our royal master own.

For to expect sans fraud and lies,
Corruption, gold, and apt disguise,
We can our favorite ends obtain,
Is but "a maggot of the brain."¶
An empty whim, Quixotic madness,
Ending in shame, chagrin and sadness.

*Cursed clan—Rather rough for a professor of religion

Swinish herd—An elegant and polite name given to the common people by the elated nobility and those who style themselves the 'well-born.

§ Sow-bugs—A vulgar name for a species of small bugs, frequently found beneath stones that lie in nitrous mud and manure ; such, gentle reader, as many of our learned doctresses, in imitation of the sage physicians of the last century, catch and unmercifully pound alive in a mortar, mix their mangled bodies, reeking with fragrant gore, with wine or sugar, and administer to the squeamish patient in form of a pleasant drink, or grateful bolus.

Brainless Monkeys—Many true words are spoken in jest.

³ D—d thing—Rougher still; but hypocrites will sometimes forget themselves.

¶ Maggot of the brain—A beautiful oratorical flourish, displayed by that non descript politician, the celebrated John Randolph.